A Reckless Beauty (10 page)

“Exactly,” she told him, feeling on much firmer ground now. “So we won’t do that again, will we? At least not until the world is…back where it belongs. And it will be soon, won’t it?”

His smile disappeared. “If I have to personally carry that Corsican bastard back to Elba on my shoulders, yes, it will. If only so that I can decide if I was a jackass to say anything to you, or a jackass for allowing you to change the subject.”

Fanny nodded, once again unable to speak, and then quickly pretended a great interest in what Wellington was saying to the Duchess.

“I don’t know what they’ll do the enemy, but, by God, they frighten me.”

The Duchess laughed, waving her fan rather frantically in front of her face. “Your own soldiers? They’re the salt of the earth, Arthur.”

He shook his head. “Scum. Nothing but beggars and scoundrels, all of them. Gin is the spirit of their patriotism.”

“Shame on you, sir!” the Duchess exclaimed as Fanny and Valentine exchanged looks. “Yet you expect them to die for you?”

The Duke seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, looking past the Duchess. “Mmm-hmm, yes.”

Fanny shot a quick glance to her left, and saw an older man in uniform gesturing to the Duke. Some sort of hand signal. She looked back to the Duke, saw that his eyes were hooded now, allowing no expression at all.

But the Duchess hadn’t seen Wellington’s look, and continued with her teasing questions. “Out of duty, Arthur?”

Again the man answered with a grunt more than actual agreement.

The Duchess seemed to notice Valentine for the first time, and directed her next words to him. “I doubt if even Bonaparte could draw men to him by
duty.
”

“The gentleman does seem to have his fair share of fiercely loyal followers,” Valentine pointed out quietly.

Wellington laughed then, winking at Valentine. “Oh, Boney’s not a gentleman.”

“Arthur!” the Duchess exclaimed as Fanny bit her bottom lip, trying not to laugh. Why, the man was nothing but a tease. “What an Englishman you are.”

The Duke sobered, and Fanny again saw that same intense yet faraway look in his eyes that she’d glimpsed moments earlier. “On the field of battle his hat is worth fifty thousand men—but he is not a gentleman. Isn’t that right, Valentine? You’ve seen him just this past week.”

Fanny looked quickly to Valentine, her mouth slightly agape. “You’ve
seen
him? This past week?”

“Ha,” the Duchess said, her fan moving even faster. “He probably dined with him, young lady. Did you dine with him, Valentine? Tell him amusing stories even as you counted the heads of his army and peeked at his battle maps?”

Valentine bowed to the woman. “You overestimate my powers, madam. There were too many heads to count. But I did do as you requested, and pocketed a silver spoon with the man’s crest on it after we’d dined. Lovely thing. I’ll have it sent round to you in the morning.”

“How glibly you fib!” The Duchess scolded, tapping his arm with her closed fan. “I adore you.”

The Duke threw back his head and laughed, then motioned for Valentine to step closer. “Tell me, my grand spy, have you by chance noticed that there is a delightfully beautiful young woman standing beside you, as yet not introduced to me?”

Valentine quickly made the introductions and Fanny dropped into what she hoped was at least a presentable curtsey.

“Enchanted, my dear,” the Duke said, then frowned. “Becket? I have a Becket, don’t I, Valentine?”

“Miss Becket’s brother, your grace,” Valentine reminded him. “The pretty one,” he added, winking at Fanny.

“Ah! Yes, I remember. And there he is, over there. Fairly surrounded by our ladies, isn’t he?”

The Duchess turned to look at Rian. “Oh, yes, a well set-up young man, Arthur. This year, soldiers are the fashion.”

“But not war, madam. War is never in fashion,” Wellington told her. “Still, where would society be without my boys?”

“Your boys?” Valentine quipped. “You mean, the scum of the earth, don’t you?”

“Only you, Valentine, would dare to contradict your Field Marshal. Now, excuse us, ladies, just for a moment. I have something to say to this man, and wouldn’t wish to bore you with trivialities. Even you, my dear,” he said, bowing to the Duchess, “who are the best of my generals. This ball was an inspiration, and I thank you.”

Fanny watched as the Duke put his arm through Valentine’s and took him off, wondering what they had to say to each other that hadn’t been said before they’d walked through the doors and into the ballroom. She smiled at the Duchess, not having the faintest idea as to what to say to the great lady, and looked around the room, for the first time noticing that there now seemed to be small knots of officers standing together, talking together in earnest.

“Do you think—” she said, turning to ask the Duchess, only to see a small child tugging on the lady’s skirts.

“Mama! Iggy has promised to bring me a cuirassier’s helmet to use as a sewing basket. One without blood, of course.”

The Duchess smiled down at her daughter, and then addressed the blushing soldier who was standing behind the child. “Good for you, Sarah! And one for me, young man—
with
the blood.”

Fanny nearly jumped as a deeper voice came from behind her and she turned to see two men standing there, their uniforms denoting their rank, although their demeanor had already made their importance obvious.

“Where do you plan to stick your Frenchman, Hay?” one asked imperiously of the young soldier.

The Duchess pulled her daughter close against her skirts. “Oh, now, now, Sir William, Sir Thomas, don’t you two go teasing the boy. Don’t answer him, Iggy.”

But the young man simply raised his chin and declared cheekily, “I thought under the right armpit, sir.”

The child clapped her hands in glee. “See? He has it all planned!”

“Ah,” the second man said. “Under the armpit, is it? When you meet a cuirassier beam to beam, you’ll be lucky to escape with your life, much less his helmet. Boy, you’ll learn the art of fighting from the French.”

“But we’re better, sir,” Fanny said before she could stop herself. “They’ll run from us.”

The man lifted a quizzing glass to his eye, and then turned that grossly magnified eye on Fanny. “Well, look here. Another pretty face for us, to take our minds from the trials ahead, your grace? How clever of you. Do you grow them up in your back garden? And what’s your name…hmm?”

Fanny exhaled in relief as Valentine slid his arm around the man’s shoulder. “General Sir Thomas Picton, may I present to you Miss Fanny Becket, sister to our newest aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Rian Becket. Now, Tommy, go away, you and Ponsonby, too, before I box both your ears. Go talk to the Duke, why don’t you? He’s in the anteroom.”

The general looked as if he was about to protest, but when Valentine raised one eyebrow he merely nodded, and he and Sir William bowed to the ladies and headed for the anteroom.

“Your grace, charming Miss Sarah,” Valentine then said, bowing to the ladies, “if you’ll excuse us?”

“What’s wrong, what’s happening? You sent those men to Wellington, didn’t you? What do you know, what did he tell you?” Fanny asked quickly as, his hand behind her elbow, Valentine smartly steered her across the floor, signaling to Rian as he went. Within the space of three heartbeats, they were all outside in the meager garden, and Valentine was looking at them both without expression.

He said what he had to say. “The Duke had ordered troops in position at Quatre Bras to move to Mons.”

Rian nodded furiously. “Yes, I know that, sir. And?”

“And our good Prince of Orange’s own Quartermaster-General disobeyed that order and instead sent another brigade to reinforce Quatre Bras and the crossroads.”

“My God,” Rian said, clearly shocked by this news. “Why?”

“Who knows,” Valentine said, his smile thin, remembering a quiet conversation he’d had earlier with that same Quartermaster-General. “Just thank God he did, because Marshal Grouchy is on the move, going out to engage the Prussians before they can join with us. Mons is not in their sights—but Ligny and Quatre Bras are. Bonaparte clearly wants to divide our troops, keep himself between us and Blücher. It’s brilliant, actually. The Duke is even now ordering everyone back there, and all his commanders and aides to headquarters, ready to move at his command. Your Thirteenth, for one, will get its first fight tomorrow, Lieutenant. Most definitely.”

Fanny reached for Rian’s hand and squeezed it with her own, mentally saying a quick prayer for Sergeant-Major Hart.

“We’re to leave now?” Rian asked. “Tonight?”

“Tonight. We’ll be hearing the drums and trumpets at any moment,” Valentine said. “Get yourself back to headquarters as quickly as possible. I’ll give you a moment to say your farewells.”

Fanny watched him walk to the far side of the garden, his hands clasped behind his back, and then launched herself into Rian’s arms, squeezing him tightly. “Oh, Rian, be careful. Please be careful. Remember Papa’s lessons. Remember to rest Jupiter when you can. Remember what Jacko said about fighting and don’t be polite about it, don’t be fancy—just
win.
Fight as meanly as you have to. Remember—”

“Shh, Fanny-panny,” he told her, stroking her back, feeling her body’s slight tremors. “I’ll be fine. I want this, Fanny. I’ve wanted this for so long.” He kissed her hair, and then pushed her gently away from him. He opened two buttons of his tunic and reached inside, coming out with a single folded sheet of paper. “Here, take this.”

Fanny looked at the paper as if it might attack her. “What…what is it?”

“My will, Fanny. Charles said I should write one. Everybody does. In case.”

She looked up at him in absolute terror even as she quickly pushed her hands behind her back. “In case—Rian, no!”

“For God’s sake, Fanny, don’t be such a female,” he told her, his attention already more on the flurry of activity, the hasty leave-takings going on a few steps away, inside the ballroom. “We’ll laugh about such maudlin silliness, and then burn the thing together when I get back but, for now, just take it. And do what his lordship said, go to Wiggins if things look dire, get yourself and her ladyship out of Brussels, all the way back to the coast.” He shoved the will within an inch of her nose. “Promise me, Fanny.”

Fanny took the paper, crushing it tight in her hand, her gaze still intent on Rian’s face. Her bottom lip trembled, so she clamped it between her teeth until it steadied. “Don’t leave me, Rian. Don’t ever leave me alone. I…I wouldn’t know what to do without you.”

“You won’t be without me, Fanny-panny. I promise. We’ll dine together tomorrow night or the next, and I’ll tell you grand lies and silly stories about how I routed Boney all by myself.”

She sniffed, blinked. “And I’ll pretend to believe them, every one of them.”

Rian crushed her against him, holding on tight, as she held on tight, and then set her from him. He smiled at her one last time, and then abruptly turned away, ran back into the ballroom, to where a chubby young Lieutenant was waiting to clasp him around the shoulders as they both made for the doorway.

Fanny watched him go, her hands pressed tight against her mouth, her eyes closing when she felt Valentine’s hands on her shoulders.

“Good girl,” he said, giving her shoulders a quick squeeze.

The sob she’d been holding back escaped her and she turned into Valentine’s arms, pressing herself close against him, her arms tight around his waist as if he were an anchor she could hold on to in a world gone mad.

Valentine held her, let her cry, wondering why it had never bothered him that no one had ever feared for him, cried for him. Wondering why a part of him wished Fanny’s tears now were for him.

“Fanny,” he said as her sobs lessened, “I have to go now, too. Let me take you back to Lucille.”

She looked up at him, her tear-wet eyes shining in the light from the few torches in the garden. “Where? Where will you be? With the Duke?”

He forced a smile to his face. “Me? I imagine I’ll be riding higgledy-piggledy from here to there and back again, carrying messages, making suggestions, dodging French patrols. This won’t be a matter of hours, Fanny, as we’re only trying now to counter Bonaparte’s first move. It will be days, but not weeks, as our chess game plays out. We won’t let Bonaparte escape us again, I promise you. I feel certain that one large battle will decide the outcome for all of Europe.”

She lay her hands on his forearms as he lightly cupped her waist. “Will you…will you be able to ride into Brussels, do you think? To tell us how the battle is going?”

“No, sweetings, I don’t think so. But you’ll know. We’ve already discussed this. Stay close to the windows, and if you begin to see half the city passing by in the direction of the coast, take Lucille and go to Wiggins. Rian needs to know you’ll do that.
I
need to know that.”

Her fingers tightened on his sleeves as the sound of trumpets calling the troops came to them on the night air. “Please be careful, Brede.”

He smiled again. “Because you’ll worry for me?”

A small smile played at the corners of her own mouth. “Not even a little bit. But Wiggins would be devastated if anything happened to you.”

“True. I have to think of the man’s loyal heart, don’t I?”

Fanny nodded, trying hard to think of something witty to say, something that would keep her from saying anything more serious. But it was no use. The trumpets were sounding; what sounded like a thousand drums had begun to beat out the call to arms. The noisy clatter of horse hooves against the cobbles, wheels bumping along the streets, invaded the small walled garden. She could hear women crying inside the ballroom.

Still holding on to his forearms to balance herself, Fanny went up on tiptoe and pressed her lips against Valentine’s mouth in a quick kiss, then just as quickly retreated. “Godspeed, Brede.”

He crushed her against him, his mouth coming down to capture hers, needing to take the taste of her, the feel of her, with him into battle. When her arms slipped up and around his neck he slanted his mouth against hers again, invading her softness, feeding on her innocence, needing for her to remember this kiss. Needing her to remember him.